I Don't Care
by Tam Cranver
Summary: This is an Au Revoir, Les Enfants story. We just watched it in French, and I liked Joseph, so it made me feel really bad when he acted in a traitorly manner at the end. This is just about thirty seconds in the movie from his point of view.


Disclaimer: I don't own Joseph, Julien, Jean Bonnet, or Father Jean (lots of J names!). I don't own the soldiers, the scene, the school, anything from the movie Au Revoir, Les Enfants. I think it's owned by Jean Malle. I think that's the director's name. I didn't think it mentioned Joseph's last name, so I just made one up. I also made up his mother and three brothers. I just wrote this because I really liked Joseph and didn't want him to be a traitor.

  
  
  
  


I hate you.

You're looking at me with disgust in your eyes. Me, who traded with you when you first came here, when nobody would look at you or talk to you because you cried for your mother at night. Me, who's called other people names but never you, because I know that it hurts you more than it hurts the older boys. I want to call you something now, something that will wipe that look off your face.

Don't look at me like that! You're looking at me like I've committed the one unforgivable sin, the one that you in all your boyhood digressions would never think of committing. You're telling yourself you'd never betray a friend. Self-righteous prig. Let's see how well you hold up when it's your head they're holding a gun at. Who was it that called the German's attention to Bonnet? Not me. Who was it who said, "Don't mess with me," when he asked you your name? Not me. Who called him "Easter Bonnet?" Certainly not me. So don't you dare look at me like I'm doing some horrible thing, some thing you'd never have done.

I'm looking right at you now, and I know what's going through your head. You're thinking about all the times I cheated you on a deal, stole something from the kitchen cupboard, or said something bad about Father Jean behind his back. Well, what about the times the older boys, sometimes your brother, were hitting me, calling me names, and you stood by and watched? Sometimes you even laughed. And you're so shocked that I leave a good food stamp out when we trade next? You whine about how cold the beds are, how scarce and bad the food. Well, I don't have a bed, and I don't have a mother sending me jam every two weeks.

  
  


My family used to be rich, or so Mother used to tell me. Back in the days when we had the best of everything, when our stomachs never went empty and my older brothers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob and I all had our own beds. Mother told me about it many times, but I don't ever remember it being that way. I remember Mother dying, gasping at Abe and Isaac and Jake to take care of me. I remember Jake going off to a catholic college--we were Jewish, and oddly enough, the catholic college was the only one that would take Jake. I remember Isaac going to England to try to find a job. I remember Abe getting so drunk that one day he wondered out into the street at night, a car screamed by and Abe never wondered back in.

  
  


I remember reading books like the ones you read, the fancy ones by Dumas and Hugo, and thinking all kinds of chivalrous thoughts. Like I'd rather die before betraying my friends or family. Well, I've grown up. My family betrayed me, and I don't have any friends. Chivalry means nothing to me anymore.

I remember when I first ended up on the doorstep of your school. I was maybe twelve, thirteen, about your age. It was January, but I'd been outside, walking a long time. It was cold. Abe had died months ago, and I hadn't had any luck finding Isaac, so I pinned all my hopes on finding Jake at your school, only to find that it wasn't a college, it was a kids' school. 

I showed up one day and asked for Jacob Hamburg, only to be told there was no Jacob Hamburg and never had been. I was crushed. I had no food, no money, nothing but two shirts, a pair of pants, and one shoe. (The other one was lost in a pond I made the mistake of drinking from.) Father Jean was about to turn me away, but he took one look at my face and invited me in.

I was terrified. How was I supposed to act? Should I tell them I was Jewish? What were they going to do to me? Images of the Spanish Inquisition floated through my head. But Father Jean sat me down, gave me a piece of bread and a bowl of soup, and asked me why I was there. Before I knew it, I'd told him everything. I didn't ask for anything; this was back when I still thought myself too good to beg from some priest. As it turned out, it didn't matter.

  
  


It was odd, at first. Most of the boys were older than me; they hadn't really started taking really little boys in yet. I didn't know anybody, didn't know what to do. Finally, one day, I traded one of my shirts for a pair of old shoes that one of the boys had grown out of. Finally, I had found my niche. 

I picked up whatever I could, wherever I could; fruit and pastries at the market, old clothes at charity places, candy in the waiting rooms of fancy restaurants and businesses. I gave it to the boys at school, in return for things like jam and butter that I couldn't find elsewhere and could trade to other kids.

  
  


I didn't steal much. Just when I was really hungry, and just from the leftovers I scraped off your plates after each meal. I really didn't steal as much as the cook. One day I saw her baking a cake out of church materials. She didn't eat it, but I know she didn't serve it to you. She probably sold it or traded it. At least when I stole, it only got as far as my stomach. 

  
  


When they kicked me out, I was shocked. A month's wages? What in the world could I do with that money, buy myself a loaf of bread? It wasn't the money that kept me at the church, it was the free food, the place to sleep each night. What was I supposed to do? It'd been three years, Jake was probably out of college by now, where in the world could I find him? I was dazed. I wandered around the marketplace for a while, not really paying attention to where I was going, when I ran into the soldier.

  
  


It was over for me just like that. All I had to do was tell him my name, and he knew that I wasn't some little innocent catholic schoolboy. They'd asked around, they knew that Joseph Hamburg was the lame Jewish kitchen boy over at the school that always had some black market goods and an eye for pretty girls. I didn't even have the sense to give him a false one. 

  
  


At first, I insulted them, was defiant. Shows how stupid I was. First sign of that gun, first picture of Jake that soldier took from his folder, and I was singing like a canary. I felt guilty later, of course. Father Jean took me in, and I've got nothing against Dupres, Bonnet, and Lafarge. But then, Father Jean also kicked me out, and it's no skin off my nose if three boys I didn't even know get caught. Serves Bonnet right, really, for not scratching his name off that book, for praying in Hebrew at night. I gave it up long ago, but even if I hadn't, I would if I were him. You wouldn't have even suspected him if you hadn't seen those candles, would you?

  
  


You're turning, walking away now. Not even giving me a chance to explain. From now unto eternity, you'll be cursing the name of Joseph Hamburg. 

  
  


You know what? Go ahead, Julien Quentin. I don't care. Because you could never understand. You're just a little kid. When they come for you, see what you do. You'll talk. To save your own skin, you'll betray anyone. Because, like me, Quentin, you're no angel, no priest. You're flesh and blood, and no matter how much time you spend convincing yourself that you're a total innocent, when it comes right down to it, you're as much to blame as me. After all, Jean Bonnet wasn't my friend.

  
  


So go ahead, walk away. The soldier I called a friend is walking away now too, leaving me time to get away. I pause for a moment, looking back, waiting to see if you would. But you don't. And I really don't care.

Notes: If you have any constructive criticism or anything like that, please send it to me. Umm…yeah.


End file.
